


The Calm Before the Storm

by renn



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:10:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renn/pseuds/renn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solo enjoys the atmosphere at a Christmas party prior to a Trush attack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Calm Before the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Written for st_crispins for the Down the Chimney Affair #3 (2006) over on LiveJournal

The club had originally been the private home of some turn-of-the-century mogul who put his mansion in a land trust rather than let his ne'er-do-well son turn it into a sanitarium. The servant quarters had been converted to a bowling alley; a natatorium took the place of the conservatory. The house, though, still exuded wealth and success-- made more so by having hundreds of Important Men and their families fill the several stories with their Most Particular Presence.  
  
Napoleon Solo wandered through the second floor function rooms, barely-touched martini in hand, and felt completely at home for the first time in months. Solo had experienced many such elegant parties growing up, although until the age of 16 he had seen them only from a third floor balcony in his pj's. He still got a visceral thrill from dressing up and attending the party proper.  
  
He nodded at an older couple who gave him twin "Do I know you?" eyebrow raises and continued his surreptitious patrol of the facilities. U.N.C.L.E. had received word of possible Thrush activity at the club and-- although hitting up the wealthy directly didn't coincide with their usual modus operandi-- Waverly nevertheless dispatched his top pair of agents to investigate. The club management had been reluctant to let mere enforcement agents enter their hallowed halls at first, no matter the threat to the club patrons. Only the selective reveal of Solo's family tree finally granted permission.  
  
Napoleon continued his patrol, using his killer grin and charming airs to avoid all but the most brief of conversations. He noted that the reception rooms had all been painted the same light cream color, which emphasized both the rich dark wood of the trim and furniture and the gold, green, and red Christmas sparkles tastefully draped throughout the function rooms.  
  
Something about the red balls hung in the Norris Room bothered Solo. Not pnly did they seem larger than their cousins adorning the ornate double staircase up to the reception level, but they also seemed just slightly a different crimson shade. It would be easy to dismiss the variation as the produce of a different year's purchase. Solo, however, knew better.  
  
His travels brought him to a full stop in front of a neglected buxom blonde who offered tolerable conversation and a splendid view of suspicious decorations over her left shoulder. They chatted for some time. Solo had almost decided that the decorations were harmless and that the blonde was quite willing for relocation when a rudely-presented hors d'ourves plate interrupted his train of thought.  
  
Solo glared at the waiter, not even twitching an eyelid upon recognizing his partner. Kuryakin glared back. "Pate, sir? Madame?" he asked in the most deceptively bland of voices.  
  
The blonde's lip curled upon hearing the slight accent. "No, thank you," she said frostily.  
  
Solo shook his head; Kuryakin gave him a pointed look before approaching the next cluster of guests.  
  
"They'll let _anyone_ work here these days, don't they?" the blonde remarked, disgust still marring her otherwise pristine features.  
  
Napoleon mentally lowered his opinion of her, but merely commented, "Well, at least he isn't Puerto Rican."  
  
"Oh, that would be horrible, wouldn't it?" She shuddered. "That sort should really be seen and not heard, don't you think?"  
  
"Oh, yes." His amicable tone belayed his growing annoyance.  
  
"Still-- what sort of accent was that? Irish? And that hair! Goodness! If Disneyland can have grooming standards, why can't we?"  
  
"I'm sure he's just seasonal help-- you know how hard it is to get decent help this time of year."  
  
"Oh, don't I! It took me _days_ to find enough wait staff for our annual Christmas Open House." She tilted her head, giving Solo an enticing smile. "You simply _must_ come, you know. _Everyone_ will be there." She gazed at him through lowered lashes. "It's such an event-- I'm sure no one would miss us should we disappear for half an hour or so."  
  
Solo gave her a falsely-encouraging smile. "Sounds promising." He pulled out a small notebook and jotted down the pertinent details. Tucking the tools back in his tuxedo jacket, he added, "Now, if you'll excuse me a moment-- I've just spotted someone I simply _must_ talk to. Business, you know. I'll be back soon."  
  
"Promise?"  
  
"Of course!" With a slight bow and a disarming smile, Solo left her side.  
  
He casually made his way to a small library that had been deemed off-limits for the holiday party. Making sure no one observed, he slipped inside. A small goose-necked lamp on a massive oak desk provided the only light in the room. Solo settled on the buttery leather sofa and idly thumbed through a recent copy of _Town and Country._  
  
Kuryakin glided inside a few moments later. He placed a half-full tray of hors d'ourves on the coffee table and himself on the opposite end of the sofa from his partner. He smoothed a wrinkle out of his white waiter jacket before remarking, "You seem to be enjoying the Christmas cheer."  
  
Solo marked his place in the magazine. "I didn't think they were going to let you out of the kitchen, my friend."  
  
"Three of the wait staff suddenly became… indisposed. The maitre d' had no choice but to let me serve." Kuryakin chose an hors d'ourve off the tray and examined it closely. "Besides, Reynard's had actual sous chef experience, so he'll be better at spotting anything suspicious on the culinary end." He popped the hors d'ourve in his mouth. The dubious expression on his face clearly showed his opinion of the appetizer.  
  
"Too rich for your bourgeois palate?" Napoleon teased.  
  
"Too nasty, actually. I swear, it's like being on an alien planet, being on this assignment. The food's wrong, the people strange…."  
  
"More like Singapore, I'd say. Just about 75° off Average American."  
  
Kuryakin accepted the modification with a nod. "At least you're doing all right." At his partner's curious look, he elaborated, "That blonde you were chatting up."  
  
Solo snorted. "Oh. Her. She had definite possibilities-- at least until she started complaining about the long-haired weirdos."  
  
"Long-haired weirdos? How did _that_ come up?"  
  
"She saw you passing the nasty tidbits."  
  
"See? Alien planet!"  
  
"Oh, I don't know… you _do_ have longish hair…. And you _are_ weird."  
  
Illya gave him a sour look. "And did you manage to observe the decorations in the Norris Room while you chatted up that paradigm of prejudice?"  
  
"The balls were suspicious, yes."  
  
"The balls?! The ribbon bows!"  
  
"Purchased a different year?" Solo suggested.  
  
"Not according to club records."  
  
"Hung by a different crew?"  
  
"Ditto."  
  
Solo sighed and placed his magazine back on the table. "Well, with four of the five W's answered, we'd better get back out there before we miss the 'when.'"  
  
"Agreed." Kuryakin reclaimed his tray and stood. "I'll see how many more of these nasty things I can pawn off on the _haut ton_ before the action starts."  
  
"I'll be joining you in a few. Wouldn't do to see me fraternizing with the hired help, don't you know."  
  
"Oh, yes, quite, old thing." Illya left the room.  
  
Napoleon lingered for exactly three minutes, managing in that time to both find and help himself to a stash of rather fine single malt scotch. Drink in hand, he casually strolled out of the library and into chaos.


End file.
